The vein in his temple throbbed like a flail. But what she was saying was more important. "You want me to fight."

"Spar. Do you think you can do that? We could do some ourselves first, to get you limbered up."

"Sure, pet. Whatever you like."

"You're wincing. You don't have to tell me yes when you mean no."

"S'not that, got a bit of a head-ache."

"What would help?"

"Dunno. Just wait it out." What he wanted, he realized, was to be alone for a little while. Could he tell her that? Just to have the room to himself, to try and deal with this new shard of himself. A drink wouldn't go amiss either. Well, given his druthers he'd like to get blotto, and to be left alone to do it.

"I—I'll be nearby, if you need anything." As if she could read his mind—which if she could, that would be half the problem solved. He heard her go into the bathroom, the water go on. Was able to relax a little, feeling himself unobserved.

And then the knock on the door.

He waited, but the water didn't go off—she hadn't heard. Spike went to it. "'Lo?"

No answer. Clearly whoever it was had been hoping for a different greeter.

Spike opened the door anyway.

Harris stood there, foresquare, hands balled into fists at his side. "Is Buffy around?"

Here was the source of the emotion he'd smelled on her—this one was acrid with repressed rage. "Come in, I'll tell her. Think she's rinsing out her smalls or some such." Spike stepped aside. The other man had to turn his head to look at him, and did, the one brown eye taking him in like some eyesore in what ought to be a beauty spot.

"Wait a minute. I have something to say to you."

Something in Spike curled up, like a salted slug, at the words, the hard look. And something else unfurled, something fearless and combative that told him this angry man was a nothing, his opinion of no interest. The two somethings duked it out with Spike's curiosity, making his head throb harder, his stomach roil. That would be the last straw, if he were to hork up blood all over Buffy's friend.

"Yeah."

Xander stepped out, onto the landing, and down a few stairs, so Spike had to follow.

"I realized something about you just now," Harris said.

"Yeah?" Spike leaned against the stone wall, that still held the dead chill of winter even now. "Do tell me, 'cause I know fuck-all about myself."

"I asked myself, why is this happening? Because you've been in L.A. the last year, getting your evil on, which is par for the course with you. But you left Buffy alone. You weren't interested even in letting her know you were around."

Harris leaned in a little closer, like he was going to give the punchline of a joke.

"This is all in Buffy's head. You and her together, it's her new project. She's making it all up. She can do that, because you have amnesia. When you stop having amnesia, it will end."

The corners of the man's mouth ticced slightly as he spoke; his tone was confidential, almost cheerful. The meaning not immediately apparent, but before he could parse it, Buffy's voice came from within, calling out. "Sweet—? Why's the door wide—oh. Xander." She froze when she saw the two of them, her eyebrows crawling up towards her hairline.

"Hey Buff. I came by to apologize for before. I was way out of line."

Brows down. "You were."

"I know it. I'm sorry. You were right, about the bitter. I just wanted to say that. And that I'm really sorry I spoke that way to you."

"Huh. Well. Okay. I accept your apology." Her voice at half speed, muffled, like she was logy, newly awakened. Didn't look at Spike, only at her friend. Who put his hands out, to take her in his arms; three steps lower than her, they were at eye-level as she laid her cheek on his shoulder, accepted his hug with brittle motions. Spike watched, wondering. What had the fellow said, that he was backing down from now? Bitter, yeah, the bitterness cloaked him. He didn't smell sorry.

What he smelled like, what he sounded like, was someone certain he'd win. By attrition. By elimination. Someone who could afford to be patient.

What he'd said. When you stop having amnesia, it will end.

Was just what she was so afraid of.




It will be all right. It will be all right. It will be all right. If she kept repeating this while the coffee dripped through, didn't skip a beat or miss a trick, it would be true. Hell, it was true. Xander had apologized. Xander had allowed her to introduce him to Spike. The men had shaken hands while she watched. And now they were both at the big kitchen table, waiting for their elevenses, and Xander was going to give her the run-down about what had gone on at the castle while she was away, and help get Spike into the loop. It would be awkward for a little while and then it would stop being awkward, and all would be good.

After all, Xander had been okay with Spike, mostly, those last few months in Sunnydale. They'd co-existed. They'd even worked together. So this out-sized reaction to Spike now, had to be about more than just Spike. It was Spike-linked-to-Angel—Xander had never gotten over his suspicion and dislike there, so of course he'd been all over the idea that Angel had gone dark in L.A. And on top of that, a resurgence of grief about Anya. Which could happen. Grief was a tricky thing, like anger, you couldn't control it, you couldn't call time on it, you might think it was over and done with and then phwooom it reared up again bright brand-spanking new. But even when it did, usually you had your little meltdown and then you got on with things.

Xander was going to get on with things. And Spike would make allowances, if only for her sake. He wouldn't let Xander's antipathy interfere with ... with ... splort. Coffee brewed. She grabbed up the pot in one hand and the biscuit tin in the other and turned to rescue them from their unwieldy silence.

Xander opened the tin. "We haven't been here long but we've taken up all the customs. Biscuit?" He offered the tin to Spike, who took a suspicious sniff, and shook his head.

"Sugary."

"That the point."

"Don't fancy sweets." He hesitated for a second, then put a hand out to touch her hip, where she stood beside him, pouring. "'Cept for this sweetness." He smiled up at her, and for a second she had a dopey feeling of being a happy fifties housewife in an advertisement, making perfect coffee for her perfect husband. Then she glanced at Xander, whose face was set in a pleasant plastic neutrality.

Why didn't Xander have a girl? The castle was full of them. Was it because he was a sort of authority over them, that he wasn't seeing any of them? She ought to speak to him about that, encourage him. Vague ideas tumbled through her mind; double-dating at the movie house in the village with Xander and the slayer of his choice, a couple pints at the pub afterwards, the four of them playing darts. Girls holding back a little so it would be more of a contest. How nice and ordinary that would be.

But unlikely. "So," she said, slipping into a chair. "What did I miss while I was away?"

Xander talked, spitting out names—girls and demons and watchers—and their little code-words for brewing situations. Spike was listening, but Buffy knew he couldn't really be following any of this. He still seemed to have a headache; he looked paler than usual, which hardly seemed possible, faint greenish circles under his eyes. Xander mentioned other cities, other continents—places where her presence might be needed soon. Spike tensed a little, at the prospect of her leaving.

She knew Xander was mentioning this stuff just to wind him up. To put him off-balance. Gently, she said, "There's other squads can handle that stuff."

"Sure, if you think so," Xander said. He gave Spike an easy, insincere smile. "You were lucky the Buffster was between crises when the call came about you. Otherwise you'd still be cooling your heels with our colleagues in the City of Angels."

Spike nodded. "Don't remember that."

"Right. You were batshit, they mentioned that. Had to be locked up and sedated."

"Xander ...."

"Just filling him in."

"He knows about that."

"Uh-huh." Another smile, another swallow of coffee. "Could be kind of a nice break, huh, Spike?—not remembering anything. All the painful shit just wiped away, and you get the girl. Whereas others—I, for example—get to keep the agonizing memories, all that stuff we can do anything about anymore. And the girl is all gone. The girl, a demon not unlike yourself, receives no do-over. Of course, that means her sacrifice was real. Not like yours."

Buffy started up. "Xander—!"

Spike's hand on hers. "No pet. Let him say his piece. His mind's full, an' might as well be unburdened on me as anyone else."

"What he did in Sunnydale, for our side," Xander said, the emerging broken, like a forced confession. "Didn't mean he was good. Because it was only for you. The ulterior motive—never anything but what he wanted from you. That he wasn't going to ever get. Because you wouldn't do that. You wouldn't and you didn't. Never." His hand trembled against the mug handle; he pulled it back into his lap. Head lowered, talking to the table. "Only now—he comes back from the Never-Should-Have, and you get a case of the, I don't know, The Outlandish Guilts, and start thinking you have feelings for—feelings that." His mouth was tight, teeth grating. "I don't deny he's got some kind of strong sexual pull, I'd like to, but I've seen it too many times now. He pulls who he wants to pull. But that isn't love, Buffy. That isn't love, he isn't life, this can't be real."

She wanted to overturn the table, to shout him down, to shove him out the door and down the stone steps of her tower. Spike leaned forward. "What did I do to you, mate? Tell me."

"You're not my mate."

"All right. Harris. Tell me why you hate me. Go on."

"No." Buffy waved her hands between them across the table. "No no no. What is the point of this? It's just—" Hateful.

Spike, not looking at her, his eyes firmly focused on Xander, said, "She's tryin' to protect me from all my truth, an' won't answer my questions. But you don't give a shit 'bout that, so talk. Gather I had it off with your bird. What else?"

She was going to cry out again, get up and drag Spike out of the room. But it was Xander who got to his feet. "I've got an elsewhere to be, so I'll take a rain-check on that." He winked at her then. "Thanks for the coffee, Buff."

She followed him to the door, resisting an urge to restrain him physically.

"Xander, you and I have to talk—"

"We'll talk. We'll talk and talk."

"No, I mean—I have things to tell you. Things I should've explained before—"

He tapped his wristwatch. "B Squad's waiting for me below. We'll do it, count on it."

When the door clicked shut on him, she leaned against it. He was being a bear, but wasn't it her fault, really? He didn't have the facts. She'd never told him the truth about the Spike. He knew nothing of the good, and thought the bad exponentially worse than it had been. Held grudges on her behalf she'd long since dispelled.

Spike was at her back, his hands closing around her shoulders. "Seems like a sad man."

"I hadn't realized how sad." Her throat clotted. "We think we're so close, we've been friends forever, but we don't share enough. We leave each other too much alone."

"Think that's just the way of the world, pet."

"You don't ... you don't have to take what he says about you at face-value."

"No?"

"For one thing, when you slept with Anya—which only happened once—she and Xander were broken up. He'd stood her up at the altar. You were upset about ... you had your own troubles. You weren't trying to take her away from Xander."

He turned her, tipped her chin up. "What troubles, Buffy? Troubles over you?"

"This was two years ago. It's such a long time. In slayer years, that's like a couple of decades. Slayer years, like dog years ... because of the life expectancy ...." Not such a funny joke, really. Not funny at all. And for that matter, in vampire years, two might as well be an hour. When Spike came back to himself, all this stuff, it would still feel fresh, wouldn't it? "How's your head-ache?"

"'Bout the same."

She pressed her body against his, drew his face down, forehead to forehead. Eyes stinging with backed-up tears, pity for Xander whom she couldn't reach, for him, for herself, so much that was unreachable.

Reaching behind her, he flipped the door lock. Then lifted her up, arms around her hips, rocking into her. With a little gasp, she caught her legs around his waist. Cottony warmth suffused her, tailed by keener heat as his mouth explored her jaw, her throat. Relief ran through her. She had this, she had him, she could show him again what he was to her, how she was for him. Against her neck, she felt him smile, then a little growling chuckle that made her squirm and groan.

"Want me?"

She spurred him with a heel. "Need you."

They made it only as far as the kitchen table. All three mugs fell to the stone flags; two broke. It was over quickly. Buffy lay gasping, holding him in place. "Don't move. I like the weight." She cradled him, stroking his back. It worked, it worked so well, sex, it cleared things out.

But never for very long.

"We've done this before," Spike said. He raised his head. She didn't dare glance away. Willing him to silence. His gaze seemed to rummage through her, plundering her hidden truths.

Then he lowered his lips to hers, a soft kiss, like the kind that wakes the princess. "Breathe, pet."

She coughed. God, obvious much? "

Never mind now." He shifted off, to give her room.

His forebearance brought the tears up again, but she didn't give way. She wanted to say What are you thinking, what are you thinking about me? even as she didn't want to know, wanted to be spared the process that led to his once more postponing curiosity, letting her off the hook. She reached for him, pulled him on top, arousal flaring again so high she mewed with it, pleading with her voice and her body.

The one need between them that was entirely equal, mutual. Where they could exist together completely and solely in the moment.

Where, released for a little while from the whole sorry dark tangle of the past, she could demonstrate for him her simple truth.